


Iron Resolve

by Moonloon (maryavatar)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-10
Updated: 2011-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:14:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maryavatar/pseuds/Moonloon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I had a theory on Merlin's parentage, which is now COMPLETELY Jossed, but I still like the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Iron Resolve

He lands, without grace, in a forest clearing. Uther and his men are surely not far behind, but his wings ache too much to fly farther. He can feel the edge of his Territory, not a mile distant, and curses the hundred-year-old decision to tie his life and magic to one place. There's another kingdom near here, somewhere Uther and his murderous knights wouldn't be able to follow, but a dragon can't leave his Territory, unless...

He gathers his magic around himself, and prepares for the change. It won't be easy – he hasn't done this for almost fifty years – but it'll give him a few days, maybe a week, to heal on the far side of Uther's borders. He holds the shape of himself in his mind, and then... twists it.

The whole world is pain, and then he's lying on the wet grass, naked and cold and so small. He drags himself over to a puddle of water and stares at his refection. He's not just small, he's old, much older than the last time he saw this face. Not a white-hair human, but not a boy either. A man whose children should be mostly grown, and thinking about that hurts so he lets it go.

The border seems further away now that he has to walk there, but walking will give him the chance to steal clothes, and a body this size doesn't need much food to sustain it. A small farmstead provides breeches and a rough shirt, and an unwary rabbit provides lunch.

As he walks, he takes as much magic from the earth that he can. It can't heal him much, but a human body isn't as fragile as it looks, and the wounds from Uther's iron weapons can't poison him in this body. Or, at least, an infection would take longer to kill him than the creeping cold of iron.

It feels like something tearing away in his head and heart when he takes that last step outside his Territory. No more magic being drawn in, no more connection to the earth. He's lost and adrift for a moment, then stumbles onward; another hour and he'll be safe in someone else's kingdom. The sun sets and he lies down, and everything goes away.

***

When he wakes up, he's in a bed and he's warm. He can smell boiling oats and tanned leather and a great many dried herbs.

"So you're awake." A young woman sways into view and rests her hand on his forehead.

He just stares at her in confusion, and she rolls her eyes.

"You were found lying in the forest by one of the village boys. He thought you were dead and came screaming home. I wasn't sure he was wrong for a while there – you've been knocked about some." She touches a bandage covering his collarbone. "You came from Camelot?"

"Yes," he says, his voice raw and harsh to his ears. He should have practised talking – it feels so strange with this mouth.

She doesn't seem to notice, or she attributes it to his wounds. "Is it bad there?"

He laughs, or tries to – it hurts too much. "Bad is too mild a word. Uther has killed his way across the land; no one is safe if he thinks they have magic."

"He's gone mad," she whispers.

"Not mad," he says. "If Uther were mad, he could be forgiven." Then sleep pulls him away into darkness.

When he wakes again, the smell of boiling oats has been replaced with the smell of boiling chicken, but all else seems the same, including the woman.

"I'm Hunith," she says, setting down a bowl of broth on a stool next to the bed.

For a moment he's confused, and then he remembers that humans use words to differentiate between themselves. He needs a name, and stutters out the first one he can think of, "Aelfwine."

She smiles. "'Precious friend' or 'magical being'. Your parents had high hopes for you."

He smiles back. "Yes, they did." So now he's Aelfwine, a horribly inappropriate name, given that he's no-one's friend and what little magic he has left is slowly bleeding away.

"They brought you here because I studied a little with a healer," she says, holding up the spoon to his lips. "I studied with Gaius."

He clamps his mouth shut, and glares at her. Gaius the traitor. Gaius the hypocrite. Gaius who stands by Uther's side as anyone who has touched the earth's power or worships the old religion is butchered.

"I left, Aelfwine," she says, putting the spoon back in the broth. "I left because I couldn't watch what was happening there. I left because I understand why Gaius does what he does, but it hurts too much to..."

There's silence for a moment, then she speaks again. "The soup is safe." Then she leaves the bowl on the stool beside the bed and leaves.

Things are quiet during the day. Hunith is gone, and the soup made him feel stronger, so he gets out of bed and hunts for treasure. Hunith's treasures appear to be books and herbs. There's no magic in her, but she obviously has the intelligence and knowledge to learn, if she wanted.

He finds a tiny rosebud pressed between the pages of a book on poultices. It's as pink as the day someone plucked it from a bush, and he can feel the small magic keeping it that way. He doesn't recognize the magic, so it wasn't Gaius that gave her this.

The book is snapped out of his hands and he almost falls over. He turns and sees Hunith angrily shoving the book back where he'd found it. Dragons aren't the only beings protective of their treasures.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to pry," he says.

"And yet you did." Hunith keeps her face turned away.

"Was he..."

Hunith spins around. "He was everything, and now he's nothing. Uther saw to that."

"I'm sorry."

She sighs. "I'm not the only person to lose someone they loved."

No, she's not. He closes his eyes and tries not to remember the screams as his beloved crashed to the earth, an iron spike through her heart. Tries not to remember his children dying one after another. Tries not to remember his grandchildren, too young to be tied to the earth or Territory, fleeing across the sea to a new land or a watery death. He tries and fails, and barely notices the warm comfort of Hunith's arms as his battered human body falls to the floor.

He dreams about the golden child, Uther's son. The future king. He's always known that human order, not the disorder and raw power of earth's magic, is needed to unite Albion, but he'd never imagined the cost. Maybe there could have been another way to fulfill the prophecies, but Nimueh had done what she was destined to do, and the child lived.

The Golden Age of Man will come – but he won't see it. Nor will many with magic. How will the young Pendragon survive to unite Albion without magic by his side?

He wakes with the knowledge of what has to be done.

***

"I have to go back soon," he says to Hunith as they eat.

She drops her cheese on the floor. "Why?"

He shrugs. "It's my home."

Hunith picks up the cheese and throws it in the fire. "Uther's men are looking for you, and judging by the damage I treated when you arrived, they got close. If you go back, sooner or later they'll find you."

He nods. "Yes."

"But you're going to go anyway." It's not a question.

He smiles at her, and looks deep into her eyes. He's not sure how he's going to achieve what needs to be done, but she's a part of it. She's going to be the source of Arthur's magical protection, in the most basic way of all.

If he can manage it. He's not sure he has enough magic left.

In the end, he doesn't need magic to seduce her. Hunith slips into his bed that night, wrapping him in comfort and offering something he's never had on the ground. Human sex is clumsy and difficult, and he makes a bad showing at first. Then Hunith smiles and climbs on top of him, and guides him inside, and he realises why there are so many humans. This... this is like flying.

After, as Hunith sleeps, he puts one hand on her head and the other on her belly. _'Grow'_ he tells the spark of life, newly made, not yet more than a possibility. _'When the child is grown, send him to Camelot'_ , he tells Hunith, but something in her resists, crying of danger. _'When he is grown, send him to Gaius,'_ he commands, _'Gaius will help the boy, keep him safe.'_ Hunith sighs and the resistance is gone.

His magic is near gone too. If he stays here he'll die, and he can't do that. He's never been the sort of dragon who could passively accept what was handed to him, so he slips out of bed and puts his clothes back on, and runs barefoot back to the border.

The sun is high when he bursts through into his Territory, and the magic tears into him, welcoming him back as he throws himself into his own body. The wind kisses him home, and he rises high above the trees. There's a moment of pure joy, and then the iron-tipped arrows find him.

So here it is then. Death. Death wearing the face of a grieving husband. He falls to the earth, and rolls over, trying to dislodge the cold poisonous iron from his skin, but he just drives the tiny stabbing things deeper. He tries to light some fire--maybe he'll be able to take a few murderers with him--but there's a barb deep in his neck, and the flames won't come.

But the death that's been hunting him stands back, iron sword in hand, and instead of finishing it, he calls for chains.

***

The chains are iron, blocking most of his magic, and dulling the rest. In all his dreams and prophesies he'd never seen his own death, but he hadn't seen this either. Shut away in the dark, only rats and birds and kitchen refuse to live on.

But alive. Alive to guide the future. And he can wait. He'll be here soon. Emrys, the warlock, Arthur's right hand.

And the Great Dragon will be here to forge him into a weapon.


End file.
